


Poco Agitato

by goseaward



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, Ice Play, M/M, Plot What Plot, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:58:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goseaward/pseuds/goseaward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a kink meme prompt: "Sherlock and John are in a relationship and the sex is great, but both secretly desire some BDSM play. Somehow (accidentally?) one of them brings it up and they discuss it, finding that their desires and fantasies are very similar. John as a Dom, Sherlock as a pain-enjoying sub."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poco Agitato

**Author's Note:**

> From [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/16422.html?thread=92962086#t92962086) at the [kink meme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com). Unbetaed.

John does almost all of the right things without Sherlock having to ask, which is one of the reasons the sex is so surprisingly good. For instance: right now his hands are hard on Sherlock's hips, pressing them down into the bed while his head bobs over Sherlock's cock. There's sweat dripping down his neck. Sherlock reaches down to run his fingers through John's short damp hair, and John looks up at him; he can't smile with his mouth occupied, but his eyes crinkle around the edges, just like when they've finished a case, just like Sherlock likes. Then he pulls back. "Want me to keep going, or shall we move on to something else?" he asks, his voice slightly husky. 

"Whatever you want," Sherlock says, so John grins and pins him down harder and finishes him off.

* * *

The rest of their life is the same. That's the other good part. John hasn't decided Sherlock should stop chasing down criminals (more than he already wanted him to). He doesn't suddenly forgive the preserved kneecaps (tendons complete) in a jar next to the teapot. He still, laughably, thinks Sherlock needs to eat at every meal. Of course, he also still won't get out of the way when Sherlock is busy.

"Sherlock, would you like an ice cream?" John asks from the other room.

Tonight, there's too much information hitting Sherlock's brain. Smells on the night air. Sounds from the neighbours. The barking of a dog, somewhere down the block. Extra pieces of John's clothing strewn over the room from earlier activities. Phantom taste of cigarette smoke in his mouth, sense memory only. Burnt out streetlight. A loose thread on the inside of his cuff, pressing against the pulse point. Steps sounding from the kitchen. A motorbike driving too fast on the next street. He can't _concentrate_.

"Sherlock," John says behind him.

"John," Sherlock says with as much disdain as he can muster, "unless you would like to tie me up and beat me until you remove all conscious thought from my head, _do not talk to me_."

The abrupt silence behind him is the silence of somebody so surprised they cease all movement. He hadn't meant to actually _say_ that. He hates distractions.

"Right, then," John says, and goes back in the kitchen.

* * *

"So," John says. "You want me to—"

"Give me that pipette," Sherlock says.

* * *

The problem is that John has maintained normalcy so far, but he certainly wouldn't if they introduced Sherlock's submission into the relationship. Sherlock knows how it goes. He trusts John entirely, of course. But in his dark moments, he knows he stretches their relationship quite to the breaking point, and he can't let this be the thing that tips them over.

"I was going to ask," John says, still typing on the laptop—well, the hunt-and-peck motion he uses instead of true typing. "Were you—"

He's cut off by a screech from the violin.

* * *

John sets a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Sherlock. He's coming down from a case and for once he's hungry, but John steps over his legs somehow, sits down, and starts snogging him.

Eggs can wait for this.

After a few minutes, John pulls back, presses the heel of his hand to Sherlock's cock, and says, "About that thing you said."

Sherlock gets harder. And blushes. "You're distracting me from breakfast."

"No eggs until you tell me," John says, teasing.

John has the edge on him in physical confrontations, usually. Of course, John usually isn't sitting on his lap, and Sherlock usually gives him some warning. So this time he dumps him on the floor with only his arms and a twist of his hips. He takes the eggs and makes a strategic retreat to his bedroom, which locks.

* * *

And then it's three weeks of blessed silence on the topic, three weeks of spectacular sex and not one but _two_ exciting cases and—

"Aren't you curious?" Sherlock says, damning his impatience. 

John doesn't need to ask what the topic is. "Last time I asked, you locked yourself in your room. With food." He looks remarkably unperturbed about the whole situation. 

"You were persistent until then!"

"I know," John says. "And then you made it clear you didn't want to talk about it."

"Well, you weren't supposed to _listen_ to me. When do I ever listen to you?"

John rolls his eyes. "I was obeying non-verbal signals and boundaries," he says, "which is what one does in the absence of other negotiation."

Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his chin and looks over at John; he wonders idly if the effect is the same when he's lying on his back with his legs over the back of the chair, head hanging down, like he is right now. "You obviously wished to discuss the matter more. You may now ask me questions."

"Right," John says. "Do you want me to tie you up?"

"Yes."

"And beat you."

"Yes."

"Any other requests?"

"You may hurt me," Sherlock says. 

"And what's off-limits?"

Sherlock considers. "Permanent marks. Excreta other than sweat. Humiliation."

The last one makes John's eyes smile a little. "Fine with me," he says. "I like toys and I like ice and wax, which are things you didn't mention." He seems to be more experienced that Sherlock had expected, which may be beneficial.

"Both acceptable," Sherlock says. He tries to tell if John is becoming aroused, but it's difficult from this angle. He should try sitting this way more often to get used to it.

"Blood is off-limits for me," John says. 

"And chance a flashback in the middle of the scene? Obviously." John stiffens and Sherlock swings his legs around and sits up. "Did I kill the mood?"

"Not permanently," John says, and sighs. "First time out, only ropes, I think. And my hand."

Sherlock nods.

"Blindfolds? Gags?"

"Absolutely not!"

John grins. "Yes, I can see how not speaking might bother you. Anything else we need to cover?"

"No, that should do nicely," Sherlock says.

"I have one other question," John says. "Why didn't you want to talk about this?"

"You could have been uninterested."

John rolls his eyes again. "You knew I was, because I kept asking. The real reason, please."

"It's common for people to take a different attitude toward me once they have given me orders and had them obeyed. I value our working relationship."

Sherlock has trouble identifying the expression on John's face. It looks almost like constipation. Then John laughs. "You didn't want to have this conversation because you thought I wouldn't respect you in the morning?"

Sherlock runs through the scenario in his head a few times. "Ah, there's the error," he says. "You're a singular man. I apologise."

"I should bloody well hope so." John stands up, walks over, and helps lever Sherlock out of the chair; Sherlock doesn't need the aid, but it's nice. "Go upstairs and get undressed," he says in the same mild tone he uses when he's asking what Sherlock wants for tea. It's rather like the time he ordered the soldier around at Baskerville, which is probably what started this whole situation. "I'll be up in a moment."

* * *

"I have a new respect for you, John," Sherlock says as John knots the rope around his wrists. "Where have you been hiding all of this?"

"Behind the baking trays." Clever; those aren't sturdy enough for Sherlock's experiments, so he leaves them alone. John tugs on the knot. "Test that."

Sherlock tries to pull his wrists apart. There's a little give, but not much. He wriggles his fingers and doesn't feel anything strange. "Fine."

"Good," John says. He sits down on the bed, the bend of his knees right at the edge. "Across my lap."

"Which side?"

John thinks for a moment and says, finally, "Right." 

He's left-handed, but he's lost some stamina in that arm due to the injury. So, he intends to go lighter but longer: interesting. Sherlock moves over, kneels on the bed on John's right side, and bends over his knees. John has to help him down since he can't catch himself. John's wearing soft aged jeans, which feel delicious against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock's hips are more straight than bent, so the blows shouldn't hurt quite as much, but—

John spanks him and Sherlock jerks. 

"You're thinking too much," John says. "Are you ready to begin?"

Sherlock says, "Yes."

John hits the other cheek, then pauses to rub what must be hand marks on the skin. They feel warm, especially when John touches them. John runs his fingers lightly over the skin and Sherlock wonders what he's thinking of, what he sees.

His hand disappears for a moment, and then comes back down: left, right, left, right, slowly enough that the blood rushes back to the surface before the next hit lands. It's nice and slow and Sherlock settles into the rhythm, letting his shoulders slump against the bed as far as his bound wrists allow. John isn't making much noise but Sherlock can feel the beginnings of an erection against his side, and he's sure John can feel the same.

John breaks again to massage the backs of Sherlock's thighs, then his lower back. Sherlock sighs and turns his head to get a look at John's face: calm, composed, as his fingers press relaxation into Sherlock's tense musculature. "You're so pale," he says. "Already pink."

Sherlock rubs his cock against the fabric of John's jeans, which gets him another, harder, smack with a cupped hand. Sherlock grunts and John smiles. "None of that," he says. "Stay still."

He hits a few more times with the cupped hand, enough that Sherlock feels wetness start to sting at his eyes, and then John's fingers are carding through his hair, rather like the times when John checks him for injuries. But the touch is soft against Sherlock's scalp, and John's other hand is resting possessively over the last mark he made. Sherlock tries to remember how many it has been—if he counts the two warnings, then—

"Down," John says, his fingers suddenly twisting against Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock slides to the side and off the bed. John shifts his thighs apart and undoes his flies with the other hand, then brings Sherlock forward; it's easy enough to figure out what he wants, and Sherlock leans in and licks a long stripe up the side of his cock. The minute shifts of John's body against Sherlock's torso let him know he's doing things right, so he licks again up the underside, tongues the foreskin a little, and then sucks the end in. It's more difficult when he can't use his hands, because John's longer than Sherlock can fit into his mouth, but he thinks his technique is good enough that John won't mind. Perhaps he should look into deep-throating if this is going to be a common occurrence.

John's hand in his hair starts to direct him, moving his head up and off then back on, but he's not moving his hips yet. Sherlock puts his tongue to work and closes his eyes, dredging up memories of every blow job he's given John, everything that John had loved and every sound he made.

His head is yanked off John's cock, and he looks up at John's face, somehow more open than usual and yet more closed: letting Sherlock knows he enjoyed it, but reminding him who's in charge. Sherlock shivers.

"Back up," John says. 

It's harder getting back on the bed, even with John helping him—he's a little weak in the knees and his arse is burning. But he settles again, his now-hard cock trapped between his stomach and John's leg, the evaporating saliva transferred from John's cock chilling his side whenever he shifts. 

"How red do you think we can make your arse?" John says, again in that deadly casual voice.

"I don't know," Sherlock says, and is rewarded with a slap on each cheek.

"You don't have any say in it." John starts back up on that slow steady pace. He's given up on teasing now, and Sherlock feels the blows vibrating deep into his flesh. He rolls his shoulders to stretch the muscles a little and lets the rhythm flow through his body. "I have two paddles and a whip downstairs," John says.

Sherlock groans.

"Maybe next time. Right now," slap, "I like the way your skin feels against my hand." Slap. "I should have done this ages ago."

"Yes," Sherlock says. His voice doesn't wobble, but it's a near thing. There's enough wetness in his eyes it might spill over soon.

"I'm glad you agree," slap, "since, again, you don't really have a choice." Sherlock knows he does, in fact, have a choice, but even John pretending he doesn't is...nice. He lets John's hand roll him forward a fraction so his cock drags against the textured fabric he's pressed against. He's not sure if John realises, but either way, John doesn't stop.

"I can hear you thinking."

Sherlock doesn't know what to say, slap, so he doesn't respond.

"Better," John says, but then he _stops_ , which isn't what Sherlock wants. "Back up."

Sherlock scoots back. This pulls his cock away from contact, but John reaches under him and starts to jerk him off. 

"Oh," Sherlock says. "Don't—"

"Don't come yet," John says, even as his hand does criminal things to Sherlock's body. He's been paying attention to technique too, not that Sherlock had any doubts. He breathes in, breathes out, tries not to move or think about his hands or think about the increasing aching burn in his arse or think about John's other arm, which has reached out to wrap around Sherlock's ribs, holding him on John's lap as he loses muscle tension. "It's a good thing you're so skinny." Sherlock can hear the smile in his voice. "How much longer do you think I can do this before you come?" 

Sherlock breathes hard against the bedclothes. 

John _squeezes_ and Sherlock sees stars. "I want an answer to that one," John says.

"Two minutes," Sherlock says. 

"Hmm," John says, sounding exactly like he does when he's deciding what kind of tea he wants to drink. He's a cold-blooded bastard; it's one of Sherlock's favourite things about him. "That's not as far along as I'd like you," he says, and—having apparently learned from the stunt in the kitchen—he manages to shift Sherlock back into position without any conscious help on Sherlock's part at all.

"You're so beautiful," John says, almost under his breath, and it's unexpected, nearly enough to throw Sherlock out and then— "Count to twenty-five." Sherlock has a brief moment where his heart rate surges and he thrusts against John's leg, no power to stop it, before the blows start landing: as hard as he has wanted all along, and fast, so fast. He bites off the numbers as though they're pushed out of him by the force against his arse. He feels the strain in every muscle in his body, the jerks of his cock against John's thigh, the beginning of delayed burn, and then it's over and John holds onto him by the shoulder and hip, waiting, waiting.

The endorphin rush comes crashing down. Sherlock's heart beats harder, his skin tingles. His arse is throbbing but it feels good now, great, and he thinks he can distinguish every individual fibre in John's clothing. It's a better fucking high than cocaine, especially because John is right here with him. He sighs, turns his head to the side and John is watching him, smiling. 

"How are you doing?" John says, and Sherlock nods and lets his head rest against the bed. His cheek is damp; he feels melted. John smiles more broadly, then presses his hand against Sherlock's arse—not hard, but Sherlock feels his toes curl. "All right," John says, "up," and Sherlock somehow kneels up and sits carefully, not letting his hips settle onto his heels. 

John chucks his trousers and climbs up onto the bed. "Come over here, you," he says, naked affection. Sherlock crawls after him. "On your stomach is fine. I want to look at your arse." He sticks a pillow under Sherlock's chin and neck, easing the pull in Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock settles down, head turned so he can watch John as he leans over and traces his fingers gently over Sherlock's buttocks with his left hand. Sherlock's over-sensitive now and even the ridges of John's fingertips feel like too much friction. John gives a grunt of satisfaction. "I'd call that a job well done," he says, and then leans over to the glass on the bedside table that Sherlock has carefully not been considering. He has a tea-towel in his hand when he comes back, cupping a small block of ice.

John's hand goes over Sherlock's back where Sherlock can't turn far enough to see, and there's a drip or two of cold water before the ice touches his scapula. Sherlock hisses and John doesn't move it at all, just lets it sit, the cold leaching out into Sherlock's skin and throbbing. "I wonder how much of your skin I could turn red before you begged me to stop," John says. 

"More than this," Sherlock says impatiently, and John laughs.

The ice starts moving, not over much area, still concentrating on the shoulder blade. He can't feel it when it passes over the first place John touched; that's already numb. The melted water is sliding down over his shoulder onto the bed. John rubs and rubs until Sherlock is jerking against the bed, shuddering, making small noises he can't help, his skin aching but so cold he almost can't feel what John is still doing. 

John straddles Sherlock's hips, his cock and the points of his ilia pressing into abused flesh as he leans forward. He rests one hand on the cold area of Sherlock's shoulder blade (of course, his reddened hand) and turns his torso a little with the other, enough that he can reach under and press the ice to Sherlock's nipple.

Sherlock practically levitates off the bed but John is strong and John is heavier than he looks, so he can't. And John doesn't move it either—no teasing, here, only the pain as Sherlock's whole body tries to retreat. "Please, please," Sherlock says. Begs. "Stop it, I can't. Please."

The cold hand leaves his shoulder and grabs Sherlock's hand where it's lying on his lower back, then squeezes twice. Sherlock squeezes back, twice, and then John _presses_ the ice in, leans down to push Sherlock against it, trapping their hands. 

"Please!" Sherlock says again and this time John does. He rolls Sherlock over and leans down to tongue the cold flesh, making soft noises of pleasure. His mouth feels unbearably hot, and Sherlock still can't feel his shoulder blade, and Sherlock can hardly stand to have his arse pressed against the shoddy, scratchy fabric that John considers suitable bedclothes. John spends long enough on Sherlock's nipple that Sherlock begins to hallucinate that there's a direct line to his cock, it's so hypersensitive, but finally John has enough and moves to sit on Sherlock's chest. Not too hard; Sherlock can still breathe.

"You're going to suck me until I come," John promises.

Sherlock nods and licks his lips, and John groans, and then his mouth is full and he opens up and lets it happen. He can tell from the amount of fluid already there that John is close, so he scrubs his tongue along the underside and lets John move in and out; it is indeed not very long before John grunts and pushes in and holds it, and then Sherlock's mouth is filled with fluid. It's hard to swallow on his back with his mouth full but he think he manages it.

John moves off him, and Sherlock breathes.

"Now," John says, " _I'm_ going to suck _you_ until you come. But I will stop every time you stop talking."

"Talking?" Sherlock says, trying to catch up, a wholly unfamiliar feeling.

"Yes," John says. "I want to hear every dirty fantasy you've ever had about me, and I want you to make it good."

Sherlock watches him slide down, move over Sherlock's cock, stop with his lips less than an inch away. Sherlock twitches his hips and John smiles, but moves back so Sherlock can't get any contact. "I mean it," John says. "Right now."

Sherlock nods. He thinks. It's...hard. He— "I want you to tie me up and fuck me," he says. He likes being tied up. His wrists aren't really enough, although having to lie on them right now, that's nice. "Tie my legs apart so I can't move and have you push in, not enough preparation, I love having to feel it, every inch." The words feel like they're tumbling out of his mouth without conscious intervention from higher brain functions. John has rewarded him by sucking him in and is now moving slowly, dragging his lips up and down. "And you should, you should beat me. Paddles are nice. Maybe whips, I've never tried that but I bet you'd be good at it. Very steady." Whenever John gets far enough down, Sherlock can feel his breath stirring his pubic hair. "And you should, you should do the ice again, that was good." John makes a small noise in his throat. "Or, whatever you like. Wax. It's for you, John, whatever you want," and John goes all the way down, which is a skill Sherlock had somehow not known he possessed—didn't he know everything about John? He didn't chase the thought. "You could tie me up and watch me, or you could tie me up and pretend to be me and text Lestrade." That's a thought he likes and he pauses, and John pulls back and just—raises an eyebrow.

"Oh," Sherlock says. "Okay. You could...yes. Tie me up and fuck me." John goes back to what he was doing. "Oh toys? You said you liked toys. You could tie me up and put things up me and I wouldn't be able to see what they were. How's that?" John doesn't answer, obviously. "Yes, and you could do plugs and you could beat me while the plugs are in me—" That's enough for him, he bucks up and spurts into John's mouth, no warning, but John takes it. There's a little drip of come next to his lips when he pulls back and Sherlock wants to touch it, but John wipes it off.

"Roll over," John says, and Sherlock's rolling before John even gets to the "please." The knots come off his wrists and Sherlock brings his arms up, letting the taut muscles smooth into a more normal configuration while John pulls out lotion and starts rubbing it into Sherlock's arse.

"Were the parameters satisfied?" John asks.

Sherlock opens one eye and looks at him. "Parameters?"

"Did I beat you until you couldn't think?"

"Hmm." He reaches out and lays his hand flat against John's chest. "Close enough."

John nods. "We'll try to do better next time," he says. He leans up and kisses him. 

As it is, it's five whole minutes before Sherlock starts thinking about the case again. "Might be a new record," he says to John as he hops out of bed, winces, and moves more decorously towards the door.


End file.
